‘Right.’ Hepton signed himself as Martin Harris and followed Sanders towards one of the doors. This led into a smaller reception, where a young black secretary tapped away at a computer.

‘Morning, Sarah,’ said Sanders, passing her and pausing at yet another door. Sarah smiled at Hepton, and he smiled back. He was thinking now that everything was going to be all right.

Sanders had knocked at the door. There was a command from within, and he opened it, ushering Hepton into the room before him.

It was a decent-sized office, its furniture a mixture of the antique and the up-to-date. Books lined one wall, while another contained paintings and prints. The fourth and last was taken up for the most part by a large window, again net-curtained. At the window stood a middle-aged man, an important-looking man. The cut of his clothes was expensive, and where his cheeks had been shaved there was a bright ruddiness that bespoke health and wealth. Hepton had the feeling that he had seen this man before somewhere, on television perhaps.

‘Ah, Mr Hepton. Do come in, please. I’m George Villiers.’

Villiers! Hepton’s heart shrank to the size of a peach stone. But he kept his face neutral, betraying no emotion, and finally shook the proffered hand. It struck him that Villiers wouldn’t – couldn’t – know that Hepton knew about him. He had to stay calm, not give anything away. He breathed deeply to stop himself from hyperventilating. His heart was racing, but he kept his posture stiff.

Villiers motioned for him to sit, and Hepton did so. Then Villiers seated himself and drew his chair in towards the table. Something about his actions – a clipped, rehearsed quality, a feeling that each movement of the body possessed its own cause and effect – told Hepton that he was ex-military. And not all that ex either.

Villiers lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. It was a typed sheet, not the one Sanders had taken with him from that first room. ‘Can you tell us why you wish to contact Major Dreyfuss?’

‘No,’ said Hepton briskly. ‘If you could just pass a message on to him that I’m trying to reach him, perhaps—’

‘You’re on holiday at the moment, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but how could you—’

‘These things aren’t difficult. All right, Mr Hepton. We’ll see what we can do. Where will you be staying while you’re here?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘With Miss Watson, perhaps?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Oh?’ Villiers stared past Hepton’s shoulder, towards where Sanders stood. ‘I was under the impression the two of you were friends?’